To hear the program, click on "Listen" above.

The point is... a person feels good listening to Rossini. All you feel like after listening to Beethoven is going out and invading Poland. Ode to Joy indeed. The man didn't even have a sense of humor. I tell you... there is more of the Sublime in the snare-drum part of the La Gazza Ladra than in the whole Ninth Symphony.
-- Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow (1973)

Let’s clear up the first issue right away: According to the calendar, there should be 53 candles on the cake we baked for Giaocchino Rossini, born on February 29th, 1792. (Blame the vagaries of the Gregorian calendar: 1600 and 2000 were Leap Years, but 1700, 1800, and 1900 were not!)

It may not matter all that much to us, but it certainly would have to Rossini, arguably the most famous, beloved, and wealthiest of composers after the death of Beethoven and the rise of Richard Wagner.

And perhaps the most superstitious: As author David Dubal notes,

To the casual observer, Rossini must have seemed blithely carefree, but in reality he was hopelessly neurotic, plagued by nervous ailments and superstitions of all sorts, including the fact that he was born on February 29th. When taking his first train ride in 1836, he fainted from fear.

Rossini had good reason to be nervous. He grew up seeing his political-activist father go in and out of jail. He was apprenticed to become a butcher and blacksmith in his native town of Pesaro, only to be saved by his fine boy-soprano voice. Perhaps a bit too fine; Rossini was literally a knife’s edge away from becoming a castrato before his parents relented. They opted instead to send him to Bologna to pursue a musical career with a mature pen instead of an immature throat.

That proved to be the most logical decision of Rossini’s profoundly illogical, albeit brilliant, career. According to his biographers, Rossini himself liked to say that he only cried on three occasions: “The night my earliest opera failed; the day I watched a truffled turkey go overboard on a boating-party luncheon, and the first time I heard Paganini play the violin.”

His earliest opera might have failed, but it didn’t take long for Rossini to have an all-time hit on his hands: The Barber of Seville, premiered in Rome in 1816, and on anyone’s short list of Greatest. Operas. Ever. Or, as NPR Guide author Ted Libbey puts it:

It has held the stage continuously since its premiere in 1816, making it the oldest work never to have fallen out of the repertory. The libretto is among the finest Rossini set, and it inspired a score full of musical riches that remains as fresh today as on the day it was first heard. That Rossini was a week shy of his 24th birthday when that happened make The Barber of Seville only that much more of a miracle.

A miracle, in fact, that quickly spread to three continents, thanks to the efforts of “the tenor of Seville,” Manuel García. The Sevillian-born García, (the original Count Almaviva in both Rossini’s opera and Mozart’s “sequel”: The Marriage of Figaro) took Rossini’s works to the New World, leading his family troupe in what’s thought to be the first American performances of Italian opera in both New York City and in Mexico. Their opera of choice? The Barber, naturally!

If Manuel García was the first, then John Tessier will be the very latest to take on the comedic role of the lusty-but-witless Count, in the new Boston Lyric Opera production that opens on March 9th.

Tessier’s take on Rossini, along with BLO cast members Sarah Coburn (Rosina), Jonathan Beyer (Figaro), and conductor David Angus will capped off our day-long celebration of the wit, grace, and genius of Rossini, as they joined Cathy Fuller for a special “preview performance” of highlights from the composer’s immortal composition. To hear it, just click on "Listen" in the upper left-hand corner.

For all of his talk about loathing work and loving the good life – the soireées musicales chez Rossini were the toast of Paris – Rossini was an extraordinarily gifted and prodigiously hard worker. In the space of less than 20 years, Rossini composed no fewer than 38 full-length operas, a body of work – and inspiration – unrivalled by the composers of his day.

And in our day, Rossini’s musical gifts remain as infectious as ever. We truly do feel good listening to him. What is it about Rossini’s music that is as warm and inviting as the Mediterranean Sun? Author David Dubal suggests an answer:

Rossini’s music is crystal clear: his constructions are tight; the harmony is clever and diatonic; above all the melodies are easy to remember. Rossini was the first tunesmith; one might even say that he was the inventor of the pop song. He caught the ear of a growing middle-class public with music that appealed as never before to a mass audience.

Or, as Rossini himself once said: “Give me a laundry list and I will set it to music.”
 

Gustav Leonhardt, a revered pioneer in the revitalization of Baroque music, died on Jan. 16 in Amsterdam. His performances and teaching influenced countless musicians, but Classical New England host James David Jacobs also encountered his more personal side.

“Excuse me – do you know of a place near here where one could get chocolate?”

That was not the question I expected to hear at that moment, especially considering its source. It came from Gustav Leonhardt, who was to soon be performing his American debut as a conductor. I was singing that night with the University of California Collegium Musicum Chamber Chorus, but the eminent early music pioneer’s question came at an awkward moment. I was in the process of quickly leaving in embarrassment from a place deep within St. John’s Presbyterian Church in Berkeley, California, where the concert was set to take place.

I had gone to this familiar, remote corner of the church, a location I considered my own secret place, in order to get my voice warmed up, never thinking that anyone else even knew about it. It was only when the world’s greatest harpsichordist and foremost expert in Baroque performance practice emerged in an unbuttoned shirt and hanging suspenders that I realized I had invaded the space designated as Gustav Leonhardt’s private dressing room.

I immediately apologized and began to slink away, though he did not seem disturbed at all. Then, in his polite, soft, and somewhat patrician manner, he asked me if I knew where to get some chocolate. I did, in fact, and a few minutes later an expedition was organized, with several choir members and Gustav Leonhardt, to a nearby candy store named Sweet Dreams. Leonhardt very politely, but without a hint of embarrassment, picked out several pieces of candy, which he ate out his paper bag on the way back to the church, bestowing a kind of dignity and gravitas to the act of candy-eating that I’ve tried and failed to emulate ever since.

That night, Leonhardt conducted in very exact gestures. There was no baton in his hands, but he was not at all vague. It was very evident that he knew this music and exactly how he wanted it to sound. Despite his own grim, forceful physical style, the resulting music was flowing and lyrical and free, eliciting some of the most beautiful music-making I have ever heard.

Everyone, even those in the choir and the string section, felt their individual contribution to the total sound. Leonhardt, despite his taciturn manner, created an atmosphere of glowing warmth. It was certainly one the greatest musical experiences of my life.

The principal oboist for that concert was the late Bruce Haynes, and I remember him telling me the story of going to an orchestra rehearsal in Amsterdam the day after Leonhardt had conducted a concert on Dutch television. The concert was notable for employing a particular style of inégal playing, a type of rhythmic emphasis that is not notated in the score, in one of the pieces on the program.

Bruce said that, at the rehearsal, no one said a word or talked about the concert, but it was obvious everyone had watched it because when they started playing everyone employed that exact kind of inégal that Leonhardt used in the broadcast. No one had played like that at the previous rehearsal, but such was the influence and respect commanded by Gustav Leonhardt that his televised performance changed everything.

Leonhardt played the role of Johann Sebastian Bach in the black-and-white 1968 film The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach. It was a brilliant bit of casting, because it required no acting at all. Leonhardt, looking perfectly comfortable in 18th-century costume, played harpsichord and organ, very occasionally said something when there was something important to say, and then went back to playing.

That is exactly how I imagine the real Bach was, and it is absolutely how Leonhardt was, someone very seriously dedicated to the work of creating (and consuming) beauty and pleasure.

(image of Gustav Leonhardt via Wikimedia Commons)

More on Gustav Leonhardt, including remembrances by Boston Baroque's Martin Pearlman, can be found at PRI's The World.

Video from The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach:

When you think of Masterpiece’s Downton Abbey, the first thing that comes to mind might be Highclere Castle, which “plays” Downton Abbey itself. Or maybe the mind-boggling “proper-ness” of practically every single character depicted.

One especially powerful aspect of Downton you may not have noticed – at least consciously – was the music you heard.

In a way, that’s as it should be. The score was written by John Lunn and accomplishes precisely what any film score must: a ratcheting up of the emotional trajectory of the story while simultaneously going unnoticed.

You might imagine Lunn as a wizard-like composer in a meticulous process, weaving together strands of silvery sound to form a gorgeous tapestry. But as he told me, that’s not exactly how the process started:
 

To hear more about Downton Abbey from actress Elizabeth McGovern, visit The World.

Tune in for Downton Abbey on WGBH 2, beginning Sunday, Jan. 8.  Here is a preview of Season 2:

Watch Downton Abbey I Wonder Preview on PBS. See more from Masterpiece.

There are times when the solemnity and profundity of classical music can become overwhelming.  There are also times when just the right vehicle comes along to prick that balloon and remind us that, for the most part, classical music is really an art form that deals in the messy reality of human existence.  The play and movie Amadeus pulled this off for millions, and say what you will about historical accuracy, I think our relationship to Mozart's music has been the better for it ever since.

Now along comes Three Pianos, which, like Amadeus, brings a composer of incredibly human dimension back from the brink of plaster bust-dom.  Alec Duffy, Dave Malloy, and Rick Burkhardt tap into the spirit of Schubert through a piece of music that may have been the most difficult choice for the project, but also the one that may bring us closest to Schubert's soul. 

Winterreise takes us into the mind of a character who's engulfed in the depths of despair.  As a work of art, it's considered one of the pinnacles of the song cycle form.  As an emotional experience, it's one of those rare pieces that listeners hold incredibly closely, almost protectively.

Three Pianos tests that protective feeling for those who hold Winterreise most closely.  There's no doubt that Duffy, Malloy, and Burkhardt feel complete liberty to do what they want with Schubert's music.  There's a channeling of the spirit of Schubert's work through the voices of today's experiences and realities.  At times it's hilarious, and at times it's heartbreaking. 

But my overall experience was that, even in light of the copious wine that was served throughout the performance, the reverence for the songs among the performers is palpaple.  In fact, there are moments when it's clear that the trio felt that the most powerful experience was to simply get out of the way and let Schubert's work shine through.

That respect for Winterreise came through when I met with Alec Duffy after seeing a performance.  You can hear part of that conversation and see photos from the play below.

Three Pianos runs through January 8 at the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge. 
 

In these times of instability in the recording industry, more and more Symphony Orchestras are making their own albums.

It's old news that technological advances have rattled the grand old record labels. The golden era of companies like EMI, Deutsche Grammophon, RCA and Columbia has come and (mostly) gone. It's been sobering for orchestras that once luxuriated in fancy recording contracts. But there's a silver lining, as the same advances in recording and distribution have enabled orchestras, chamber groups and even soloists to create in-house labels, gaining freedom rarely available when titanic companies set the rules. Below are five releases from American orchestras on their very own labels. Each one makes a distinctive statement, not by pandering to popular tastes, but by playing to each ensemble's strengths.
 

Chicago Symphony Orchestra Live

Like many orchestras who made their reputations in the golden age of big-label recording, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra has recently seen a gradual transition to a new generation of players. After a period of settling in, the CSO brass announce (as only brass can) that one of the strongest aspects of the orchestra's identity is in good hands. No British reserve in Walton's Crown Imperial here, just brawny Midwestern punch. Gabrieli comes at you in full modern-instrument brightness, and, in the highlight of the disc, Grainger's Lincolnshire Posy, with some gorgeous soft playing, could make you wonder if woodwinds are necessary at all.

Purchase

Listen to Gabrieli's Canzon duodecimi toni a 10:

Atlanta Symphony Orchestra:  Theofinidis and Lieberson

Music Director Robert Spano and the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra have continuously brought new music to the stage, sharing the mantle previously held by groups like the Louisville Orchestra and maintaining a tradition established by one of his predecessors, Robert Shaw. The brightly kinetic First Symphony by Christopher Theofanidis is a blazing demonstration of the appeal of the orchestra's signature "Atlanta School" of composers. By including Peter Lieberson's Neruda Songs in a gorgeous performance by mezzo-soprano Kelley O'Connor, the ASO embraces a piece that was perhaps in danger of being confined to a too-sacred, untouchable space, confirming it now as a truly enduring classic of our time.

Purchase

Listen to Theofinidis's Symphony No. 1 (excerpt):

Boston Symphony Chamber Players:  Profanes et Sacrées

The drama of James Levine's departure from Boston and its attendant publicity have tended to obscure the fact that the BSO remains an ensemble with a distinct identity, built on several strands of rich history. The Chamber Players pick up two strands of that heritage in this recording. The BSO's French legacy comes through in these musicians' ability to create both soft-focus and crystal-clear sounds simultaneously. And the orchestra's historic commitment to drawing connections between contemporary music and established repertoire illuminates the music on this disc, which ranges from 1907 to 1991.

Purchase

Listen to Francaix's Dixtuor (excerpt):

San Francisco Symphony:  Ives/Brant and Copland

Now that Michael Tilson Thomas' landmark Mahler project has concluded (17 CDs in all), SFS Media comes through with a very different recording, but one that says just as much about MTT and San Francisco. Here's a conductor with some of the best recordings of Charles Ives' music on his resume, so who better to get the most out what could have been the mere curiosity of Henry Brant's orchestration of Ives' "Concord" Piano Sonata? Copland also figures strongly into MTT's musical identity (he studied with the composer), and to hear the Organ Symphony is to encounter that fearlessly robust, all too rarely heard voice of the pre-Appalachian Spring American icon.

Purchase

Listen to Copland's Organ Symphony (excerpt):

Cincinnat Symphony Orchestra:  Baltic Portraits

In the 11 years Paavo Järvi led the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, a series of fine if largely undistinguished recordings of standard orchestral repertoire emerged on the Telarc label. This disc represents a dramatic contrast. Järvi leaves Cincinnati after this season, departing with a dynamic, brilliantly played homage to his musical roots in Estonia and Finland. These performances from the last decade show that while this fascinating music was happening during Järvi's entire tenure, only the most conventional repertoire was being disseminated via recordings. No better case for orchestras to cast off the shackles of labels and chart their own paths.

Purchase

Listen to Tüür's Fireflower:

Messiah, originally written to benefit the Foundling Hospital in Dublin, was premiered in 1742 during the season of Lent, the penitential time of year preceding Easter. 

Handel had more or less invented the oratorio as a way of staging performances at that time of year.  Opera houses were dark for the season, so the oratorio, with the recitatives, arias, and choruses of opera but none of the staging, was a pathway to entertaining, dramatic music and performances ... and the resulting box office receipts.

But not long after that first performance, Messiah found a home during the Christmas season, and it's stayed there almost exclusively ever since.  The Handel and Haydn Society gave the U.S. premiere in 1818, and now Messiah can be found every year in countless performances around the country.

I looked into the Messiah phenomenon with Thomas Forrest Kelly of Harvard University, Handel and Haydn Society Artistic Director Harry Christophers, and Masterworks Chorale Music Director Steven Karidoyanes:
 

Here are a few of the performances this season:

Boston Baroque, Dec. 9 & 10

Providence Singers, Dec. 10

Trinity Church, Dec. 11

Masterworks Chorale Sing, Dec. 16 & 17

And here is video from last year's Masterworks Chorale Sing:

For more about the piece, hear a conversation with Hoffer, Müller-Szeraws, and BMV Music Director Richard Pittman:
 

For more information about the concert, visit Boston Musica Viva.

How to describe the impact of this itinerant lumberjack-turned-construction worker-Navy seaman-trapeze artist-carpenter-encyclopedia salesman-diving instructor-commercial artist-actor-ad salesman ... (and I’m probably forgetting something) … who eventually found his calling behind the microphone? Let’s leave the capsule description to the Massachusetts Broadcasters Hall of Fame:

Robert J “as he became known, was, arguably, the most recognizable classical music voice in New England broadcast history. His idiosyncratic style of DJ’ing and news reporting, his calm voice and often long pauses, plus his extensive knowledge of music (he himself had had no “classical” music training) helped establish WGBH as a significant, essential radio service. Morning pro Musica, ran for nearly 30 years (1971-2000). For 23 of those years he was on the air seven mornings a week, five hours a day. The program was also syndicated throughout in New England. His signature opening pieces, one for each day of the week, were accompanied by his personally made recordings of chirping birds, suggesting the show (which began at 7 a.m.) as virtually the first thing his listeners heard each day.

Robert J. has been gone for more than a decade now, but his influence is felt every day that Classical New England is on the air. Every weekend morning still begins with the “Dawn Chorus” of birdsong. Not a week goes by without a Sunday morning performance of a Bach cantata on The Bach Hour. And it bears remembering that Robert J. Lurtsema was a vital part of the history of both WGBH and WCRB, where he was the host of Folk City USA, for five years.

And to think…it all began with a cloudburst. Growing up in what he called a “decidedly unmusical family,” Robert J. once recalled that the first classical piece he heard was ''Cloudburst,'' from Ferde Grofe's ''Grand Canyon Suite.'' ''That is about as graphic and approachable as a classical work can be,'' he said. ''I was completely taken.''

The rest, as they say, is history. And I cannot help but consider that history as we celebrate Robert J’s 80th birth anniversary today with a mixture both of his favorite pieces of music, and some of the memorable daily themes.

I, too, was the one of the legions of students in the “Lurtsema School of Music,” where waking up to Morning Pro Musica was invariably more reassuring than going to sleep to another late-night loss by the Sox on the west coast. To be sure, Robert J. had his fans…and he had his detractors. But as we carry on his legacy at Classical New England, I can only marvel at his signal accomplishment: Robert J. Lurtsema made classical music on the radio consequential. What he programmed, what he said, where he went mattered to a population far beyond the practice rooms and the concert halls. That’s an inspiring – and occasionally daunting! – legacy.

Robert J. Lurtsema died before his time at the age of 68. But not before fulfilling his frequently-cited admonition of Horace Mann, etched on a plaque at his Boston University alma mater: “Be ashamed to die until you have achieved some victory for humanity.”

To hear an Robert J. Lurtsema with violinist Isaac Stern on Morning Pro Musica, click on "Listen" above.

What motivates someone to move to or settle in New England? That’s the question posed by Scott Kirsner in a recent column in the Boston Globe (registration required).  As a piece for the Business section of the paper, it originated in Kirsner’s Innovation Economy blog, and his angle is that, for the most important industries in today’s economy, Boston isn’t doing as well as it could or, apparently, should.

I’m certainly in no position to argue with Kirsner’s reading of the data when it comes to Boston’s place in the worlds of technology, retail, financial services, or defense contracting. In all of these areas Boston is, according to Kirsner, second-tier, and what’s worse is that he attributes that rank to a sense of entitlement that overshadows what’s necessary in our global economy: a need not only to retain the great talent that goes to college in New England, but also to attract that talent from elsewhere.

But here’s where I want to know more. If the ranking of a city within a particular industry, especially those on the cutting edge, is important, as Kirsner says, what else accounts for the choices of today’s most knowledgeable, skilled, and talented people?

In another of his blog entries (registration required), Kirsner scratches the surface of the answer. He tells of asking a class of Harvard undergrads what they’ll be looking for in a city as they start their careers. Sure enough, these best and brightest do, in fact, value a city more highly if it’s an epicenter in the their chosen fields.

But right there, ranked third, is “Culture” (with cost of living slotting in second). Culture is a broad term, so it’s hard to know exactly what that small sample set is really thinking of. It’s safe to say, though, that on the whole, Boston and New England hold their own culturally with any other region of the country. (OK, maybe a specific flavor of culture can be more fully experienced in San Francisco or Seattle or New York, but let’s stick with the broad averages for now.)

Broadly defined, the arts and culture economy has already proven to be a vital force in New England in its own right. According to a September 2011 report from the New England Foundation for the Arts, “every $1.00 spent by a Massachusetts nonprofit arts and cultural organization became $2.20 in sales for businesses in Massachusetts, and every job provided by a Massachusetts nonprofit arts and cultural organization became 1.6 jobs for workers across the state.”  (NEFA's report is an excellent source for a statistical deep-dive, as is the ongoing Boston Indicators Project of The Boston Foundation.)

In light of Kirsner’s Innovation thoughts, how does that economic force intersect with the recruitment of the best minds and talent for life sciences, digital marketing, green technologies, and other cutting-edge industries? It’s a question I’ll be looking into in the coming weeks, so watch this space. And in the meantime, feel free to add your own thoughts and comments below.

Liszt is still a misunderstood figure. He's often dismissed for being nothing but a flashy virtuoso, but that's not really a fair judgment. In a piano lesson with Liszt, a student was playing the famous A-flat Major Polonaise by Chopin. At the moment when the left hand begins its relentless march in octaves, Liszt burst out: "Do I care how fast you can play your octaves!? What I wish to hear is the canter of the horses of the Polish cavalry before they gather force and destroy the enemy!"

Why the thunderous reaction? Because Liszt deplored empty virtuosity. He was inspired by the communicative power of music, not by the deadening, hollow effect of technical facility on display. And he was determined to bring his students into his imaginative universe.

It's true that during his years of intensive concertizing (roughly 1839-1847), an emotional hysteria developed in Liszt's fans, and "Lisztomania" set in. But I'm more intrigued by the mesmerizing effect that Liszt seems to have had on his audiences. Biographer Alan Walker describes one scene in which Hector Berlioz and a small group of colleagues succumbed to Liszt's playing in a drawing room. The fire was nearly out and the lamplight was dying. Critic Ernest Legouvé accidentally turned the wick down instead of up and the room went nearly to black. Liszt began playing Beethoven's "Moonlight" Sonata. It was too much for Berlioz, who couldn't control his emotions. The others could barely move.

Many accounts of Liszt's playing describe a strange magic, a hypnotizing focus. He wasn't presenting egotistical theatrics. He brought the audience to a new level of listening and put them, not him, on a higher plane. In such a state, listeners were given the chance to absorb his creations — new music that would belong more and more to the future, ultimately presaging the intricate coloristic effects of impressionism, and even evocative flirtations with atonality. His audiences also had a greater chance to absorb the works of composers he championed (Beethoven's "Hammerklavier" Sonata, for instance).

More astounding still is the fact that Liszt's gift for performance came with other unfathomable talents. He created the symphonic poem and the piano recital. He conducted, taught, transcribed and edited. His hundreds and hundreds of pieces reflect his love of life on Earth, his intimate experience with deep sadness and a fundamental yearning for God.

I'm happy that this year's focus on Liszt has encouraged a deeper look into the radical adventurer that he was. Here are some glimpses of Liszt's genius in piano performances captured by our Classical New England engineers here in Boston.
 

"Adelaïde" (Beethoven, arranged by Liszt)
Minsoo Sohn, piano
Liszt's devotion to Beethoven drove him to transcribe a huge number of works for solo piano so that more of the world could experience Beethoven's genius. The poem "Adelaïde" by Friedrich von Matthison features a text that yearns for an unattainable woman – a concept that resonated with Beethoven. Korean-born pianist Minsoo Sohn came to Boston to study with Russell Sherman at the New England Conservatory. He plays this transcription with the warm, singing sound Liszt was definitely after.
 

"My Joys" (Chopin, arranged by Liszt), and "Ave Maria" (Schubert, arranged by Liszt)
Marc-André Hamelin, piano
Canadian pianist Marc-André Hamelin grew up listening to Liszt's music. His father, an amateur pianist, had an abiding love for the captivating playing of the golden age pianists. "My Joys" is a gorgeous melody from the Six Polish Songs by Chopin. "Ave Maria" is an intricate elaboration of a Schubert song and presents interesting challenges. It's written on three staves with the tune in the middle, requiring the pianist to deploy some tricky fingerings to get a three-handed effect.

My Joys

Ave Maria

Spozalizio;  Petrarch Sonnet 47
Roberto Plano, piano
Liszt once expressed in a letter his love for Italy and its art, mentioning that "Raphael and Michelangelo helped me to better understand Mozart and Beethoven." "Sposalizio" (Marriage) was inspired by Raphael's serene painting "The Marriage of the Virgin," and the Sonnet springs from a beautiful love sonnet by Petrarch. Italian pianist Roberto Plano plays these homages to his own country with a sense of loving connection.

Spozalizio

Petrarch Sonnet 47

Les jeaux d'eau
Gilles Vonsattel, piano
Swiss-born American pianist Gilles Vonsattel has what it takes to make the piano sparkle and sing. Writer Alan Walker reminds us that Liszt's fountains (jeux d'eaux) are spiritual: "Liszt turned his streaming fountains into mystical symbols, associating them with the verse from the Gospel According to St. John (4:14) which he quotes in the score: '... the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.'"
 

Ballade No. 2
Antonio Pompa-Baldi, piano
Liszt wrote this Ballade shortly after finishing the Sonata in B minor. Its many moods are held together through the transformation of a single gesture. Italian pianist Antonio Pompa-Baldi plays with tremendous strength and focus. He creates enormous contrast between what is ominous and what is sunny in Liszt's dramatic world. And like Liszt, Pompa-Baldi is a sought-after teacher, attracting talented students to the Cleveland Institute of Music and to master classes around the world.
 

Trauervorspiel und Trauermarsch
Cyprien Katsaris, piano
If you've never heard this Funeral Prelude and Funeral March, prepare yourself! Liszt's late pieces that contemplate death can have a terrifying modernity. The unique French-Cypriot pianist/composer/teacher Cyprien Katsaris was making his Boston recital debut and spent hours in our studios unleashing stories and music of all kinds. Like Liszt, Katsaris is blessed with a mind-boggling mastery of the keyboard.
 

In early September, the University’s radio station, WJMF 88.7FM, began re-transmitting the signal from WGBH’s Classical New England, returning round-the-clock classical broadcasts to the Providence area.

“We are delighted that we can celebrate this collaboration in bringing classical music back to Rhode Island,” said Benjamin K. Roe, Managing Director of WGBH’s Classical New England. “Having the ability to broadcast live from Bryant University and celebrate this technology and education initiative is a proud moment for us and our listeners.”

Bryant’s student-run radio station now runs on several new technology platforms, including WJMF HD-2, smartphone applications, and uses one of WGBH’s mobile DTV channels. Bryant’s WJMF is the first student-run station in the region to be available on the groundbreaking new mobile service. Additionally, Bryant students now have the opportunity to learn from the best digital and broadcast technology experts in the business working alongside WGBH technicians.

“Our students could not be more excited over this technological overhaul of the station,” said Bryant University President Ronald K. Machtley. “This collaboration not only brings WGBH’s Classical New England to Rhode Island, but affirms Bryant University as a media technology leader in the region.”

“This ground-breaking collaboration gives us the unique opportunity to become pioneers in digital broadcasting by enabling a multiplatform approach,” said WJMF General Manager Ricky McLaughlin '12 of Hudson, N.H. “Although it moves WJMF’s traditional open-format student programming off of the analog FM dial, this phenomenal opportunity allows us to reach an increasingly national audience, especially as the technology continues to develop.”

On October 6, Classical New England will broadcast two live programs from the WJMF studios with classical hosts Laura Carlo (6-10am), and Cathy Fuller (2-6pm). At noon, WGBH and Bryant University leaders will gather for a ribbon-cutting ceremony on campus, followed by an evening reception in Providence marking the historic collaboration.
 

As a child, Ives’s father, a marching band director, would amuse young Charles by dividing his band in two and having them enter the field from opposite directions, playing two different tunes in two different keys. Ives later incorporated this kind of juxtaposition into his compositions, frequently for the purpose of illustrating a scene from a New England village during a holiday. In one work, however, he uses the technique to illustrate a scene that eerily foreshadows the atmosphere in New York ten years ago.

On Friday, May 7, 1915, at 9:30 AM EST, German U-boats torpedoed the ocean liner Lusitania, killing some 1,200 people and pulling the United States into World War I. Thanks to radio and wire services, most Americans knew about the tragedy by the time of their evening commute home from work. Charles Ives was one of them. His insurance firm, Ives & Myrick, had its offices at 38 Nassau Street (just a few blocks from what would become the World Trade Center site).

The full title of third movement of Ives’s Second Orchestral Set is "From Hanover Square North, at the End of a Tragic Day, the Voice of the People Again Arose." Ives considered this one of his best works, and wrote the following about it:
 

We were living in an apartment at 27 West 11th Street. The morning paper on the breakfast table gave the news of the sinking of the Lusitania. I remember, going downtown to business, the people on the streets and on the elevated train had something in their faces that was not the usual something. Everybody who came into the office, whether they spoke about the disaster or not, showed a realization of seriously experiencing something. (That it meant war is what the faces said, if the tongues didn't.) Leaving the office and going uptown about 6 o'clock, I took the Third Avenue "L" at the Hanover Square Station [Stone and Pearl Streets, just south of Wall Street]. As I came on the platform, there was quite a crowd waiting for the trains, which had been blocked lower down, and while waiting there, a hand-organ, or hurdy gurdy was playing on a street below. Some workmen sitting on the side of the tracks began to whistle the tune, and others began to sing or hum the refrain. A workman with a shovel over his shoulder came on the platform and joined in the chorus, and the next man, a Wall Street banker with white spats and a cane, joined in it, and finally it seemed to me that everybody was singing this tune, and they didn't seem to be singing for fun, but as a natural outlet for what their feelings had been going through all day long. There was a feeling of dignity all through this. The hand-organ man seemed to sense this and wheeled the organ nearer the platform and kept it up fortissimo (and the chorus sounded out as though every man in New York must be joining in it). Then the first train came and everybody crowded in, and the song eventually died out, but the effect on the crowd still showed. Almost nobody talked-the people acted as though they might be coming out of a church service. In going uptown, occasionally little groups of would start singing or humming the tune.

Now what was the tune? It wasn't a Broadway hit, it wasn't a musical comedy air, it wasn't a waltz tune or a dance tune or an opera tune or a classical tune, or a tune that all of them probably knew. It was(only)the refrain of an old Gospel Hymn that had stirred many people of past generations. It was nothing but -'In the Sweet Bye and Bye.' It wasn't a tune written to be sold, or written by a professor of music - but by a man who was but giving out an experience.

This third movement is based on this, fundamentally, and comes from that ‘L’ station. It has secondary themes and rhythms, but widely related, and its general makeup would reflect the sense of many people living, working, and occasionally going through the same deep experience, together.

It's a piece of music that speaks to the human spirit as we remember the tragic events of ten years ago.
 

"I don't know how he does it," Drake says of the composer. These are the kind of Schubert moments that artists analyze from every conceivable angle, and yet they still find themselves awestruck. As the miller's heart follows its sad and unstoppable march toward grief, Drake remains faithful to the music's constant tolling. He is focused and quiet at the piano. He gives Schubert's blooms of harmony a sad warmth and a deep feeling of resignation. I could see Polenzani falling instantly into the sadness of the atmosphere. You'll hear him allow a new vulnerability into his voice.

It's fascinating to consider the kind of technical awareness that a singer has to maintain, especially at emotional climaxes. How do you keep and lose control at the same time? Polenzani says that, no matter whether you're singing Verdi or Schubert, it doesn't always work. When it does, though, it's as good as it gets.

Full NPR article with playlist.